


Heard It Through The Sheetrock

by providentialeyes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming In Pants, Dildos, Gender Dysphoria, Injury, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Masturbation, Other, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, non binary john marston
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22414990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/providentialeyes/pseuds/providentialeyes
Summary: "... What if I gave you permission, would that make you feel better 'bout it?" Arthur asks slowly.John blinks at him with hazy eyes."Huh?""If I said it was fine, for you to get off thinkin'-" Arthur clears his throat quietly, "Thinkin' 'bout me."
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> there's a misunderstanding where John thinks Arthur views him as weird or gross due to him being nb, it's resolved quickly but John is injured and Arthur bullies him into taking off his shirt and its uncomfy

John's sitting, sour-faced, on the back of a four-wheeler as he squints up at Arthur.

“You wanna ride around behind me forever?” Arthur asks, frustration making his voice thick. 

“‘Course not,” John mutters, “Christ, Arthur, s’just that Dutch said-“

“Let me handle Dutch,” Arthur interrupts, tossing the keys to John who stretches forward and catches them. 

\--

When Dutch had taken on John it had been a time-constraint-driven effort to divide Arthur's loft into a two bedroom deal. 

Leaving them now with a sheetrock and not much else barrier. 

John never snored, much to Arthur's relief, but he cried, sometimes, whimpered pathetically in his sleep, caught in the grip of replaying traumas until he jerked awake with a gasp. 

All the while Arthur could hear. 

He never brought it up, even in the beginning when he'd pegged John as a bit of a wuss, he'd quickly realized just how severe things were for the kid when John would stumble down to the kitchen, usually one item of clothing backwards or inside out. 

Deep, dark half-moons under John's eyes, and a worryingly docile manner about the younger. 

John would follow orders without any bickering, wouldn't complain about any extra work piled on his plate, just went through the motions like he didn't have the energy to function outside of his set of chores and instructions. 

Yesterday had been one of those days, and when Arthur woke round three to hear John's weak sobs, he'd figured the gloom and doom around the younger would continue. 

After minutes of shifting, clinking, and sniffling Arthur hears a small gasp. 

He cocks his head, looking towards the wall that separates them. 

“Ah, shit,” He hears John whisper. 

Concern has Arthur waking up faster, sitting up slightly. 

A muffled moan, John’s bed creaking. 

Arthur blinks at the wall, trying to process. 

Not breathing, waiting. 

A barely audible whimper. 

Arthur’s gaze darts across the wall.

He’s never heard John snore, and he’s sure as shit never heard John do this.

“Mm-“ John gasps quietly, “God, Arthur.”

Arthur tenses, fingers clenching in the sheets as he listens. 

“Shit, shit,” John whimpers before suddenly being muffled, like he’s buried his face in his pillow or something. 

The bed creaks a few more times then silence prevails. 

Arthur feels frozen, embarrassed and at the same time… 

He’s hard. 

He carefully rolls over so his back is to their shared wall and closes his eyes tight.

\--

“Just walk backwards with it,” Arthur mutters, focusing on his fingers as he untangles the string lights. 

John huffs quietly but gradually starts to walk backwards as the line becomes untangled and he straightens the slack. 

Glancing up at the older man with a small, worried frown.

\--

“You know you ain’t supposed to sit on there,” Arthur says tiredly, rubbing his eyes as he pours himself some coffee. 

“Yeah, well, Hosea ain’t here to scold me,” John says petulantly, “You gon’ rat me out?”

“Nah,” Arthur sighs and sips on the black coffee, hissing and setting down the mug when it burns his tongue. 

"You still mad at me?" John asks quietly, looking at the floor. 

Arthur frowns in confusion, turning towards the younger. 

"Mad?"

"You… You barely spoke to me, these last couple days. Just told me what to do and not much else."

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek. 

When he'd first crossed paths with John after hearing the younger his heartrate had skyrocketed and he hadn't known how to respond, so he'd tucked tail and skipped breakfast, not even greeting the younger. 

"Ah…" Arthur rubs at the back of his neck roughly, gaze jumping over the nicks in the wooden countertop, "I heard you… The other night."

John tenses sharply and though Arthur trusts his mind, it's somewhat shocking to know that it was real, based on John's reaction. 

The younger immediately knowing what he's talking about. 

"... Oh."

"Just…" Arthur sighs and reaches for his coffee again, "Weirded me out, there, Kid." 

John shifts on the counter in the corner of his eye, legs uncrossing, fingers gripping the edge. 

"... Sorry."

Arthur glances over at John, but the younger has his head bowed, hair like curtains, hiding his expression from Arthur. 

"I-" John starts then suddenly loses steam, curling in on himself, "Sorry."

The younger slips off the counter and hurries out of the kitchen. 

Arthur silently watches him go then takes a sip, cursing as he burns his tongue again. 

He stalls for hours, not ready to face the day.

\--

Arthur and John are responsible for a lot of things around the ranch, even more with Dutch and Hosea away. 

So they tend to work together, tackling things as a pair, so they aren't working too long past sundown. 

But Arthur goes to muck his half of the stalls and they're already clean. 

Every horse has new hay, the chickens have food and water, the goats have been moved to a different area of pasture for fresh grazing. 

He slowly makes his way back to the house and comes through the mudroom into the living room. 

Only to see John curled up in Dutch's chair, freshly showered, sunburn on his cheeks. 

Dutch's chair is the biggest, and comfiest, with a hide back and padded armrests, twice as wide of a seat as it needs to be for the average human, making John look exceptionally small. 

Arthur quietly makes his way past the younger, into the kitchen to cook something up for a late lunch. 

\--

He has a pot of re-heated soup simmering and some bread broken and buttered when he leans out to call John to eat. 

But John is no longer in the living room. 

Arthur frowns at the empty chair and looks up the stairs towards their rooms. 

\--

"John?" Arthur knocks softly on the younger's door, "You hungry?"

He waits for an answer but gets none, then slowly cracks open the door.

Only to be greeted with a room distinctly lacking John.

\--

John comes back past dark, smelling of horses and blood. 

"Where were you?" Arthur asks from where he's sprawled on the couch book in hand. 

John tenses, hand moving behind his back. 

"Went n' fixed that part of the fence Hosea mentioned," John says slowly, "On the south edge."

"You get hurt?"

"... Just a scratch." 

Arthur squints at him suspiciously and John looks away, walking through the living room and going up the stairs with haste. 

\--

"Show me," Arthur says firmly, as John opens his door with an armful of clean clothes, heading towards the bathroom. 

"S'fine," John mutters and weaves around him. 

Arthur trails the younger to the bathroom and stands in the doorway as John sets his clothes on the sink, meeting his eyes in the mirror. 

"Can I take a shower, please? 'M covered in sawdust and this shit itches."

"After you show me." 

"Arthur…" John takes a deep breath and lowers his gaze to the sink, shrugging off his jacket. 

Arthur's eyes are immediately drawn to the blood staining John's shirt over the younger's sternum. 

"The hell'd you do?" Arthur frowns and takes a few steps into the bathroom. 

"Nail from a post, didn't notice it," John mutters. 

"How deep is it?" Arthur asks and moves to the linen closet where they keep first aid, "Was it rusty?" 

"No, it weren't rusty."

"Take your shirt off," Arthur says and sets the kit on the sink counter, digging through it, "How long ago'd this happen?" 

"... Arthur," John whispers shakily and the older man looks at their reflections to see John's arms crossed, holding himself tightly. 

Arthur studies him for a minute. 

"... What?" Arthur asks gently. 

"I can… I can do it myself," John mutters, voice thick. 

"... I don't mind helpin'," Arthur says slowly, "Plus the angle… Might skew how you're seein' it."

John lets out a noisy breath through his nose then reaches down and peels both his tee and the tight tank underneath up and off. 

Then drops his arms, standing stiff, face turned away from the older man. 

Arthur looks down at the wound on John's sternum, as blood starts beading up in the gash, the fabric having stuck and ripped it open. 

"Jesus, John," Arthur mutters and elbows the younger lightly, gesturing at the counter, "Hop up."

John lifts himself onto the counter and sits, hunched over slightly. 

"... Why you actin' so strange?" Arthur asks quietly, holding up a damp towel. 

"Don't wanna be gross," John mutters. 

Arthur makes a small, confused sound and prods John into sitting up straighter, pressing the towel to the middle of the younger's chest, trying to breakdown some of the dried blood. 

John hisses quietly, fingers clenching in the tops of his jeans.

"Lil' blood ain't gon' gross me out," Arthur murmurs. 

"... S'not the blood," John says weakly, turning his face to the side. 

Arthur frowns at him for a moment then his expression smooths in understanding. 

"You ain't gross, John," Arthur says awkwardly, moving the towel to carefully clean the edge of the wound. 

"You said it was," John says hoarsely, sounding like he's only seconds from crying. 

"What?" 

"That it- That I was weird," John whispers, "I didn't- I'm sorry."

"John, no," Arthur says quickly and steps back slightly, "That's not… I didn't mean it like that." 

John sniffs quietly and reaches up under the hair hanging in his face, wiping at his eyes. 

"I usually don't do that… Y'know?" John whispers, "I won't do it 'gain." 

"... John," Arthur shifts awkwardly, moving to rinse the rag in the sink. 

"I- I know it don't make it better, but I didn't think you'd hear," John sniffs and brings his legs up, crossing them tightly.

"That ain't-" Arthur sighs roughly and moves back over, "Sit up."

John glances at him nervously then sits up straighter, lifting his chin out of the way. 

Arthur carefully cleans the gash as he struggles to wrangle his thoughts into words. 

"It was strange," Arthur says quietly, "'Cause I've know you so long. I wasn't expectin' it."

"I… I know it's bad… I don't do that," John says pleadingly, "I wasn't thinkin'."

"Don't do what?" Arthur asks quietly as he grabs the disinfectant. 

John bites down on his lip at the sting, tilts his head back against the mirror. 

"I don't… Touch myself," John whispers, "Or drag other people into it."

Arthur frowns at the cut and then at John's face. 

"Why?" 

John makes a weak gesture at Arthur. 

"No one wants… It's 'weird'," John says pointedly. 

Arthur sighs quietly and steps back. 

"Get cleaned up," Arthur says, "Don't face the showerhead."

\--

"I never heard you do that, before the other night," Arthur says slowly as he hands John a bowl, "That's why it weirded me out. No other reason."

"If I think about… About someone, like that, I just get worried," John murmurs, "How they'd react if they knew."

"But not with me?" 

"Yeah- Or… Yeah, just," John sighs and moves the potatoes around in the soup in frustration, "Usually, I shut down those kinds of thoughts as soon as they pop up, but I was tired and upset and I thought it would help and I haven't done it in years so I just-"

John cuts himself off, staring at his bowl. 

"Why me?"

"You're… Safe," John says weakly, "I don't think that you'd… That you'd hurt me." 

"Have you not done anythin', 'cause the whole…?" Arthur struggles for a moment then gestures vaguely at John. 

"I don't know who'd…" John sets his bowl down on the coffee table and wraps his arms around his legs, "No."

"And you don't get off by yourself, neither?" Arthur asks hesitantly, "Usually, I mean."

John shakes his head. 

Arthur rubs tiredly at the side of his face. 

"Did it help?" Arthur asks, "The other night, after the nightmare?"

John looks up at him frowning. 

"How'd you know about that?"

"You ain't quiet," Arthur says gently, "I've always heard them." 

"... Oh," John whispers, dropping his gaze as his face flushes. 

"Did it help?" 

"... Yeah."

"Hm."

\--

John gasps, sitting up quickly and yanking his shirt down over his crotch. 

Arthur stills at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Were you just…?"

"I-" John squirms, fear racing through him as he drops his gaze to the floor. 

"... Okay," Arthur says hoarsely, moving towards the kitchen. 

He gets a glass of water and slowly comes back to the living room. 

John's curled up tightly, face buried in his arms.

Shaking.

Arthur hesitates at the stairwell.

"John?" 

The younger tenses harshly, going still. 

"I… Why are you… Out here?" Arthur struggles to ask. 

"I-I couldn't sleep, but I didn't- I-" John swallows hard and shifts uncomfortably, "Came down so you wouldn't have to hear me."

Arthur rubs at his jaw awkwardly, looking down at his glass.

"I'm gonna go back to bed now…" Arthur says slowly, "I'll see you in the mornin'."

John makes a shaky sound of agreement that follows Arthur up the stairs. 

\--

John pulls the same stunt as before, doing both workloads before Arthur even has a chance to realize, all before the sun's even fully up. 

"John," Arthur says roughly as he comes into the kitchen behind the younger, who freezes from pulling a beer out of the fridge, though it's only mid-afternoon.

John slowly puts the beer back and closes the fridge, hovering nervously.

"You know I'm not mad, right?" Arthur asks seriously, "You don't have to do my shit for me."

"I couldn't sleep," John says weakly.

"So you fucked over the entire schedule?" 

John shifts anxiously, twisting his long sleeves around his hands and shrugging. 

Arthur sighs quietly, rubbing at his face tiredly. 

"How's your chest?" 

"S'alright," John mutters.

"Can I see it?" Arthur asks gently, "I know you're probably right, but I also know your habit of lyin' when you're hurtin'."

"... Now?" John asks quietly.

"You ain't gotta take anythin' off, just pull it up, alright?" 

John shifts away from the fridge and grabs the center bottom of the Henley and the layers underneath, pulling them up to expose the healing gash on his sternum, the fabric catching and curving under either side of his chest.

"Does it hurt still?" Arthur asks as he steps closer, peering at the wound.

"Lil'," John murmurs, craning his neck to look down at it. 

"Looks a bit red," Arthur says quietly.

"It's itchy."

"Hm," Arthur sighs and steps back, "Just keep it clean."

\--

John's proper drunk.

Arthur's glancing over the top of his book at the younger every few minutes, making sure that John hasn’t slipped completely off the chair. 

When he looks up this time, John’s looking right back at him, eyelids heavy. 

“You good?” Arthur asks quietly. 

"Is it weird?" John asks, voice raspy.

"... What?"

"Me," John makes a vague motion to his crotch where he's hanging almost upside down in Dutch's chair. 

"You mean in general or…?"

"No," John sighs quietly and shifts to sit in the chair, slumping down and drawing his socked heels onto the seat, "Me gettin' off, thinkin'... Imaginin' you?"

Arthur presses his lips together and thumbs to the next page in the book. 

"Art?" John prompts in a small voice.

"I don't know," Arthur says roughly. 

John drops his gaze down and to the side. 

"Why are you askin'?" 

"Do you want me to stop?" John asks quietly, "I know… I said I wouldn't do it 'gain but I did."

Arthur sucks on his teeth and shifts on the couch, trying to focus on the paragraphs in front of him. 

"Normally you don't admit shit like this," Arthur mutters, "'Specially not to the subject of those kinds o' thoughts."

"But I'd wanna know?" John frowns and glances at Arthur, head lolling to the side, "And I don't… I don't wanna… S'scary."

"Scary?" 

"Sometimes I get crushes on people, but they don't know about..." John gestures to his body, "And the thought of them… Gettin' mad, reactin' badly, it stops that line o' thinkin'." 

"So you're thinkin' 'bout me… 'Cause I know?" Arthur asks, nose scrunching as he tries to work through where this conversation is going.

"S'more than that," John says weakly and squirms in the chair, "But if you don't… I feel like I'm betrayin' you, somehow, doin' that kinda thing when you don't want it." 

Arthur sighs and shoves his hair back, frowning down at his book before closing it and looking up.

"... What if I gave you permission, would that make you feel better 'bout it?" Arthur asks slowly. 

John blinks at him with hazy eyes. 

"Huh?"

"If I said it was fine, for you to get off thinkin'-" Arthur clears his throat quietly, "Thinkin' 'bout me."

"But it's… You can't…" John frowns and looks down, worries the hem of his boxers between two fingers, "What's off limits?"

"... What are you thinkin'?"

"I just… I don't wanna do anythin' that you wouldn't want," John whispers.

"Well…" Arthur shifts the book into his lap, conveniently covering his crotch.

His cock, starting to swell.

"What have you been thinkin' 'bout when you're…?" 

John shies a little, ducking his head further, face flushing.

Arthur feels a little guilty, over asking these things of John while the younger is drunk. 

But maybe they can come to some resolution, get past this.

"Just you," John says quietly, "Doin' different things."

"Like what?"

"Like… Like it's your hands, 'stead of mine," John whispers, "Or you inside me, 'stead of-"

"Instead of what?" Arthur asks hoarsely, his cock straining against the button closure of his flannel pants. 

"I- Uh," John swallows and crosses his arms, "Picked up somethin', in town."

"Oh?"

"S'just… A plain kinda thing."

"Alright," Arthur takes a deep breath, rubbing his jaw lightly, "What're you imaginin'?"

"S'not," John makes a weak, tired sound, tilting his head and sliding down to lean on the armrest, "Lots of things, Art, so much."

"Shit," Arthur mutters and presses his hand to his mouth.

John lifts his gaze to frown at him in confusion. 

"Arthur?"

"Think you oughta turn in, John."

"... Are you-?"

"Go," Arthur says quietly, gesturing towards the stairs, "Go sleep it off."

John watches him for a moment then struggles to his feet, disappearing slowly up the stairs. 

Arthur waits until he hears a door shut before moving the book and squeezing himself firmly through his pajamas. 

"Shit," Arthur gasps and closes his eyes, imagines John spread out, fucking himself open with his fingers, with a fake cock, all the while begging for Arthur. 

He comes surprisingly fast, throwing his head back against the cushion as he pulses come into his pants. 

He breathes heavily for a minute, eyes closed tight, then slowly looks down at the wet spot seeping through the flannel.

"... Shit."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chest, hole, nub used for john

John's blearily staring into his coffee, perched on the edge of the counter when Arthur comes in. 

He tenses, slightly, glancing up at the older man. 

“How’s your head?” Arthur asks through a yawn. 

“S’fine,” John says quietly. 

“You drank quite a bit last night…”

John frowns at Arthur then gestures with his mug at the mostly empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. 

“That all me?”

“Yup.”

“And you didn’t stop me?”

“I ain’t your keeper.”

John huffs quietly and studies the older man before pressing his lips together and lowering his gaze to his coffee. 

“... Did I _do_ somethin’ last night?” John whispers. 

Arthur pauses across the kitchen, facing the counter as he pours his own coffee. 

“Whatchu mean?”

“I think I remember doin’ somethin’,” John says hesitantly, “But I ain’t sure.”

Arthur sets the pot back on the warmer and turns around. 

“Arthur?” John asks quietly, “Did I?”

“You didn’t really _do_ nothin’,” Arthur edges. 

John blinks at him before his brows furrow. 

“The hell does that mean?” John asks impatiently. 

Arthur takes in a deep breath then lets it out as a sigh, a twinge of guilt in his gut.

“You asked me if it was weird, that you…” Arthur makes a small noise of frustration and gestures broadly at John, his cheeks pinking, “Think ‘bout me.”

“... Oh.”

“And you told me you did it again.”

John sucks his teeth, quickly dropping his gaze to the floor. 

“Told me that… That you bought somethin’,” Arthur says slowly, watching John closely for the younger’s reaction, “Pretend it’s me.”

He doubts John would have let that slip had the younger not been drunk. 

Arthur watches John’s free hand tremble then curl into a fist on the younger’s thigh. 

He hears John swallow thickly. 

“So… That’s what you _‘did’_ , I guess,” Arthur says quietly, tapping his fingertip on the side of his mug before taking a slow draw of coffee.

“What’d you say?” John asks after a moment of silence between them. 

“What?”

“When I told you, what’d you say?” John lifts his gaze, guarded.

Scared. 

“I…”

“Arthur,” John says quietly, pleadingly, “Don’t lie now.”

“I said it was fine,” Arthur blurts out, shifting to cross his arms, gripping the mug tightly in one hand, “That I’d be willin’ to give you permission, if it made you feel less… Guilty.”

“... Permission?”

“For you to…” Arthur takes in a shaky breath and averts his eyes sharply, whispering, “Jesus, John.”

“You serious?” John asks quietly. 

“It ain’t as strange as you’re makin’ it,” Arthur says, just as quiet, “Sometimes you just... Feel comfortable with certain people, and it carries.”

“Do you?”

Arthur’s nose wrinkles and he slowly turns back to John. 

“Sometimes,” Arthur says pointedly. 

\--

John’s watching the storm in the distance out of the big windows in the living room. 

Each crack of thunder has him tensing, each strike of lightning drawing his eyes frantically to the flash. 

“Why don’t you head on up,” Arthur says gently, “Watchin’ it move ain’t gon’ help you none.”

John glances at him briefly then looks back out the windows. 

“Feel safer here,” John whispers. 

“‘Cause you can see it?” 

“... With you, I mean,” John mutters. 

“... Oh.”

Arthur studies the younger for a moment then shifts in the large chair, the seat size halfway between an armchair and a loveseat. 

“Hey,” Arthur says quietly, drawing John’s attention away from the storm, “C’mere.”

Arthur nods his head towards the empty space next to him and watches John’s brows furrow in confusion before smoothing in surprise. 

John uncurls from the corner of the sectional and shuffles over, carefully wedging himself against the armrest, sitting a bit stiffly. 

“You tired?”

“Kinda,” John says weakly. 

Arthur lifts his book up and to the side, stretching his other arm around John and tugging the younger down, until John half-falls into his lap, head pillowed on Arthur’s thigh. 

John stays tense for a few seconds, then the tension melts from him, and he curls up next to Arthur, pressing his cheek firmly to the older man’s leg as he cups his hand over Arthur’s knee. 

Arthur props his book on his other knee and rests his hand on John’ shoulder. 

They sit in comfortable silence, and John doesn’t flinch as harshly, eyes closed, able to relax, _finally,_ with trust that Arthur will keep watch for him. 

Protect him. 

“How’s your cut?” Arthur asks after a few turned pages. 

“Fine, I guess,” John mutters, “Lil’ funny, but not _bad.”_

“... Infected?” 

“Just a lil’.”

Arthur sighs quietly and lightly squeezes John’s shoulder. 

“Can I see?” Arthur asks, fingertips catching on the hem of John’s sleeve, “Make sure we don’t need to do anythin’?”

John blearily opens his eyes and twists onto his back, tiredly glancing up at Arthur before pulling his shirts up, hap-hazardly keeping his chest covered.

Arthur’s hand is warm, settling heavy on John’s ribs as the older man leans over him. 

His fingertips ghost the pink skin around the mostly-closed wound. 

John lets his head roll on Arthur’s thigh, turning his forehead into the older man’s hip. 

Slowly relaxing his grip on his shirt, his hands settling by his sides. 

Trusting Arthur, again… 

Always. 

“Still itch?” Arthur asks, barely louder than a whisper. 

John shakes his head slowly, closing his eyes, focusing on Arthur’s careful touches. 

“Hurt?”

“Achy,” John mutters.

Arthur’s hand settles on John’s lower ribs as he looks down at the younger. 

“You wanna put somethin’ on it?”

John hums in indecision, shrugs, nods. 

Arthur lets out a small huff of a laugh then sets his book down. 

“Alright, stay here.”

\--

“Scoot,” Arthur says, coming back with a jar of salve and a damp rag. 

John struggles to sit up enough for Arthur to sit back down behind him. 

He lays back down, barely able to keep his eyes open as he peers up at Arthur.

Arthur glances at John’s chest then looks away quickly, clearing his throat.

“You… You okay with this?” Arthur asks quietly, lightly tugging the shoulder of John’s shirt, bringing it to the younger’s attention that the shirt is barely covering his chest. 

“Can I take it off?” John asks tiredly. 

“‘Can you’?” Arthur asks incredulously, “Shit, John, that ain’t up to me.”

“I mean, you ain’t…” John sighs and rubs at his eyes, squirming to get his head in a more comfortable position on Arthur’s thigh.

John sits up, swinging his legs over the armrest to hold himself up as he yanks off his tops, laying back and dropping the shirts on the floor next to them, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes. 

“How long’s it been since you first showed me?” Arthur asks quietly, “S’been years, Johnny, I still ain’t bothered.”

“S’different now,” John whispers. 

“How?”

“It’s…” John huffs and links his hands over his belly button, “It’s different… We’re different.”

Arthur purses his lips slightly then sighs and drops the rag on John’s face, making the younger splutter. 

John bitches quietly and yanks the rag off his face to glare up at Arthur, only to tense when the older man’s fingers smear the gel over his sternum. 

John blinks in surprise then slowly settles down, watching Arthur’s hand move over his chest. 

John feels goosebumps prickling his arms as a warmth builds in his gut, sucking on his cheeks and lightly tapping his toes on the armrest. 

Arthur's fingers are slow, firm and confident in their job of massaging the gel around the wound. 

He notices the younger's chest is rising and falling a little faster, pauses. 

"Hurt?" Arthur asks quietly.

John meets his eyes and slowly shakes his head.

"Ah," Arthur murmurs in understanding, fingers still towards the bottom of John's sternum. 

The older man licks his bottom lip nervously, draws it between his teeth and holds it there as he studies John's reaction, slowly moving his hand.

Ghosting under the curve of one side of John's chest. 

John's lungs stutter underneath his touch and Arthur hesitates.

"... What are you-?" John asks hoarsely. 

"This alright?" Arthur whispers, scared to speak louder, scared he's already fucked up. 

John stares up at him.

Nods. 

Arthur continues his path around the shape of John's chest, getting to the top and dragging his fingers up to John's throat. 

He rests his fingertips in the hollow between John's collarbones.

Feels John swallow. 

Arthur moves his hand up to John’s forehead and brushes the younger’s hair back slowly. 

John’s studying him intensely, despite the tiredness lingering in the younger’s eyes. 

“Arthur?” John asks quietly, “... What was that?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, sitting back slowly and looking out at the storm. 

His fingers loosely threaded in John’s hair. 

“Whatever happened to Abigail?” Arthur asks stiffly, “You two were together for awhile.”

“We weren’t together,” John says, face screwed up in confusion, “Not really.”

“You like her still?” 

“She’s with someone,” John frowns, “Why you bringin’ this up suddenly?”

Arthur’s mouth quirks to the side and he lightly tugs on a strand of John’s hair, making the younger reach up and swat at Arthur’s wrist. 

“Just think you should get out more, I guess,” Arthur mutters. 

John shifts to look at Arthur more clearly, frowning harshly at the older man. 

“Maybe you’d get over this,” Arthur says softly. 

“Get over this?” John asks incredulously, sitting up and turning to face Arthur fully. 

Arthur sighs and covers his face, crossing his other arm over his chest and squeezing his opposite elbow tightly. 

“This ain’t a good idea.”

John studies him for a minute then scoots off the seat, grabbing his shirts and pulling them back on quickly. 

“... John,” Arthur says quietly, rubbing his jaw awkwardly. 

“You couldn’t’ve decided that before you felt me up?” John whispers harshly. 

“That’s not-“ 

“Goodnight, Arthur,” John says firmly, already walking towards the stairs. 

\--

Arthur wars with himself for about a half an hour. 

Then he’s in front of John’s door, knocking on the frame. 

He hears the quiet sniffling stop, the creaking of John’s bedframe. 

The door opens slowly, John standing at the edge of it, almost behind it, head bowed. 

“I…” Arthur trails off uncertainly. 

Wishing he could go back, be a little braver, a little more sure in his wants. 

“Can I come in?” Arthur asks after a moment. 

“Why?” John asks, voice raw.

“... So we can talk?”

“You need to come in for that?”

“I guess not,” Arthur says softly. 

John’s fingers flex on the door before the younger sighs and opens the door a little wider. 

Arthur shuffles into John’s bedroom, moving towards the bed and looking at John for permission before sitting on the edge when John shrugs. 

John nudges the door not-quite-closed and hovers a few feet away, crossing his arms over his chest after wiping roughly at his eyes.

“You trust me too much, John,” Arthur says lowly, settling his hands on his knees as he levels the younger with a serious stare, “I don’t want you gettin’ into somethin’ with me just ‘cause you think I’m safe.”

John’s arms loosen, as he stares at Arthur in disbelief. 

“That’s what you think?”

“That’s what you told me, that you don’t think I’d react badly, hurt you.”

“I also said it was _more_ than that,” John whispers, “It’s always been more than that.”

“... How long is always?”

“A couple years,” John mumbles, looking down at Arthur’s socked toes.

“But you didn’t get off on it, until that first time I heard you?” Arthur asks slowly. 

“... Better way to say it might be that it _started_ as more than that,” John rubs at his arm, tentatively looking up at Arthur, “And it still is. S’not just the physical, that was… More like an afterthought.”

Arthur studies him for a second then makes a beckoning motion. 

John slowly moves closer, until he’s standing between Arthur’s knees. 

The older man reaches out and takes John’s hands, drawing the younger closer. 

“I asked you the other night, what you’re imaginin’,” Arthur whispers, interlocking his fingers with John’s, “You just said me, like it’s my hands, ‘stead of yours…”

John squeezes the older man’s hands, stepping a little closer. 

“Me, ‘stead of that toy you got,” Arthur says lowly. 

John flusters slightly, pressing his lips together. 

“No one’s supposed to know ‘bout that,” John whispers. 

“When’d you get it?”

“Couple weeks ago,” John admits quietly, “Not that long after the first time.”

“Huh,” Arthur laughs quietly, “Rather quick escalation.”

“I-“ John frowns slightly and ducks his head, whispering, “It helps.”

“Shh, I know,” Arthur backtracks quickly, moving one hand to John’s waist, “I’m not pokin’ fun, I swear, just... Surprised, I guess.”

John pulls back a little bit and leans down, sideways, reaching under the bed skirt.

He comes back up with a shoe box, sets it in Arthur’s lap. 

“... Is this-?”

“Mm.”

Arthur thumbs off the lid, letting it fall onto the bed next to his thigh. 

“You got more than one?” Arthur asks hoarsely, looking at the toys nestled in an old towel. 

“Didn’t know what I’d like,” John says quietly. 

“Which… Which one are you…?”

John picks out the one in the middle, a simple shaft of dense silicone. 

“Didn’t really have an idea of what… What size,” John explains, “Guessed and got options.”

“What size you’d like, or what size would feel like me?” Arthur asks, moving his hands back to John’s waist. 

“Both, think they might be the same.”

“Hm,” Arthur nudges the box to the side and pulls John into his lap, the younger cradling the toy between them. 

“Will you let me watch?” Arthur murmurs. 

John makes a weak sound, squeezing Arthur’s hips with his knees. 

“That a yes?” Arthur asks, amusement filtering into his tone. 

“Yeah,” John whispers, “Yeah, _Christ.”_

“How you wanna do it?”

“Can I…” John squirms and crawls out of Arthur’s grip, into the middle of the bed, towards the headboard, reclining against his pillows then looking up at Arthur, “This okay?”

“Whatever you want, John.”

John makes another small sound and looks down at himself, reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants, slipping his fingers under, holding the toy in his other fist to warm it up. 

He meets Arthur’s eyes as he dips his fingers into his slit, lightly playing with his nub, his head falling back, lips parting slightly. 

“Nn,” John swallows a moan, whispering, “Arthur.”

“Damn,” The older man murmurs, “You already real worked up?”

“Was downstairs,” John says weakly, hips shifting into his own touch, “You teasin’ me like that.”

“Wasn’t tryin’ to tease you,” Arthur admits, “Just… Wanted to keep touchin’ you.”

John whimpers loudly, moving the toy under his waistband. 

Arthur watches, enthralled, as John shifts his hands under the fabric, a quiet, slippery sound with each hidden movement. 

“Arthur,” John begs weakly, tilting his hips up and lining the head of the toy up, “Arthur, Art-“

“Yeah, Johnny,” Arthur says roughly, “Keep goin’.”

“Fuck,” John whispers and whines breathily as he slides the toy in, seating it until the flared base is nestled against his hole. 

John pulls his hands out of his pants and squeezes his duvet tightly, hips rocking into the feeling of being full. 

“Fit well?” Arthur asks, shifting on the bed and pointedly ignoring his twitching cock. 

“Big,” John whispers shakily, “Feels good.”

"You already close?" 

"First one, yeah, if I keep playin'."

"First?" Arthur gently nudges John's legs into butterflying open, until he can see the bulge of the dildo under the fabric.

"Been gettin' a couple."

"Shit," Arthur whispers, meeting John's eyes, squeezing the younger's ankle. 

"How would you…" John licks his lips nervously, glancing down Arthur and then back up, "How would you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Fuck me," John whispers, "How would you…?" 

Arthur stares at him for a moment, carefully breathing slow and deep. 

"Depends," He says finally. 

"On what?"

"Lotsa things, Johnny," Arthur says lowly, "Where we were, why we got there, what you were wantin'..." 

John makes a shaky sound and squirms, reaching down to push the toy back in through his pants. 

Arthur can see a wet spot forming under the bulge and clenches his jaw, cock glaringly hard at this point. 

"Downstairs… If I had asked you to, that night you caught me?" John asks hesitantly. 

"Hm…" Arthur studies him and nudges his legs open a little further, "You were already close, what were you imaginin'?" 

"Bein'- bein' in your lap, just uh," John tilts his head back so he doesn't have to meet Arthur's eyes, "Lettin' you use me, while you were readin'. You were pushin' and pullin' my hips, just grindin' real deep in me when you wanted to." 

"Holy shit," Arthur whispers, feeling his face heating up, "I… Uh…" 

"You liked what you were readin', too, so sometimes you'd stop moving and I'd just have to sit there until you realized or wanted to," John shifts and grips the base of the toy through the fabric, angling, his slick making it a wet sound when he clenches around it, "I had to stay quiet, and it was hard, when you'd stop, just your cock buried in me and I was shakin', tryin' to not beg or move." 

“Jesus, John,” Arthur murmurs and John glances down to see the older man’s eyes closed, one hand pressing down on his cock. 

John hesitates then gently nudges Arthur’s knee with his socked toe. 

“C’mon, Art,” John whispers, “Please?”

Arthur opens his eyes, looking down at himself and then over at John, holding the younger’s gaze as he works his bottoms open and pulls himself out. 

John shifts to sit up a bit more, watching in rapt attention as Arthur slowly starts to stroke himself.

“Shit,” John whispers, feeling his face flare with warmth, clenching around the toy as he grips the base of it tightly, “Christ… Think you might be bigger.”

Arthur huffs quietly then makes a small sound, gripping himself and taking a deep breath. 

“Y’always been ambitious,” Arthur jokes quietly. 

Resumes stroking himself, watching John’s reaction. 

The younger squirms and rocks his hips against his hand, grinding the toy deep into himself.

Trying to match pace with Arthur, breath hitching at the thought of the older man fucking him right now, just as slow and controlled as the older man’s hand is moving on himself. 

John whines, high and loud, legs flexing as he slips his other hand back under his waistband. 

Dragging his middle two fingers through his slick before catching his nub between them and rubbing firmly. 

“This what you doin’?” Arthur asks hoarsely, “When you’re beggin’ for me?”

John nods, quick and jerky, looking up at Arthur through his lashes. 

“Arthur… I’m-“ John inhales sharply and shifts his legs, feeling Arthur’s fingertips lingering on his ankle, “I-“

“Go on,” Arthur murmurs, squeezing John's ankle.

John grits his teeth against a thready whine, closing his eyes tightly, hips twitching against his hand. 

"Arthur," John whimpers, "Want you." 

Arthur groans weakly, and curls over himself slightly, stroking with a tight grip.

"Shit, _John,"_ Arthur whispers desperately as he comes, pulses of his spend streaking across the wood floor. 


End file.
